


Ghost Town

by Otterly



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 10:59:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11147043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otterly/pseuds/Otterly
Summary: After getting blueballed by his business partner, Nick Wilde walks through the back alleys of Sahara Square late at night and stumbles across a rather odd ceremony within the confines of a private manor.





	Ghost Town

A fox stand in front of a van parked in an alley located near one of the richest neighbourhoods in Zootopia. The heat wraps around him like a blanket, even under the starry sky. The moon glows eerily, lighting the ends of the van and making the metal shine. The fox knocks on the door, hoping for an answer.

The van door opens, and standing angrily is a fennec wearing nothing but boxer briefs that hug his remarkably girly hips.

“Finnick!” the red fox greets, whisky on his tongue, helping to slur any words that come out of his mouth. “How are the hell are ya?”

“Nick,” Finnick glares down at him. “Didn’t I tell you that tonight was cancelled?”

“Well, yeah, but I was hoping that maybe we could have some fun anyway?“

“Nah. Don’t feel like it.”

“Come on! This dick made you jizz so hard you passed out before I could get myself out of you. What’s changed?”

“My mood. The answer’s no, Nick. Go home. Where the fuck that is.”

The van door slams in Nick’s face, and his previously perfect posture wilts. “Goddamn it.”

* * *

 

Sahara Square sucks. One of the last thirty things you learn about Zootopia. It sucks at day — too many camels strutting about the place and every single one of them is wary of their pockets — and it sucks at night because of all the crime. Nick slinks down the street, far away from the alleyway by now, and thanks Finnick (after cursing him ten times) for at least parking in one of the nicer neighbourhoods.

Nice houses surround him, intimidating him like bullies around a scrawny nerd. Nick shivers a little. It’s a little like the neighbourhood itself knows that he’s here and it knows that he doesn’t belong. He almost starts talking to the houses. He doesn’t wanna be here! All this sand in his fur sucks. Sand sucks. If he never comes back to Sahara Square it’ll be way _way_ too soon.

He bumps into something, and stumbles back.

“Watch where you’re going, mutt,” a voice warns him. It’s deep. Menacing.

A glance upwards reveals that the thing he bumped into was a mammal. A big rhino in expensive clothes and a leather jacket, currently glaring down at him. Weird that this is the second time he’s found himself in this situation.

“Hi, sir,” he smiles politely, baring his teeth just a smidge in hopes that this rhino’s one of those mammals that are indiscriminately afraid of all predators. “Sorry for bumping into you.”

“Save it, dirt dog,” the rhino’s glare holds steady. Unfortunately for Nick, he’s definitely not one of those fearful mammals. “You best get out of this neighbourhood if you wanna keep your pelt.”

“Sure thing,” Nick chirps, and walks past the rhino on his merry way.

Welcome to Zootopia. Everyone’s the worst unless you’re a fox. Then _you’re_ the worst and no one ever lets you forget it. The very moment you think you can have something good to look forward to — such as no strings attached sex with a hot guy — forget it. Zootopia’ll find a nice way to kick you out and push you down a suburban sidewalk full of people who hate your guts.

About as par for the course as every other day Nick’s lived in this miserable melting pot of a city.

He scowls off into the late night, and next time he looks up he doesn’t recognize where he is.

The houses are still nice, but now they’re weird. Lights are on. So are TVs. Everything that should have been turned off it still lit. No one’s out and about, so it’s not a rare well off pred neighbourhood, but something’s suspect. It’s hard to describe. There’s a presence in the air. An energy that was present with all the mammals and lingers even though none are around.

He suspects that if he could somehow walk through walls, he’d walk through each one of these houses and find them completely empty. Like a freaking ghost town.

Then the singing reaches his ears. Hypnotizing notes draw him closer to the mansion that they’re coming from. He looks at the rest of the road, home so close in reach. But it’s a home with no one to answer to. Which means that he can satisfy his curiosity for once.

Nick wanders around the back as the singing gets louder. It sounds tender. Definitely live. Not some kids blaring music at a party, no. It’s a band playing some really weird shit. He reaches a giraffe length hedge and stops. He could turn back now. Go home without any trouble. No chance of being seen and mistaken for some kind of sexual predator.

The music swells. A melody charms his ears, and convinces him to stay. He decides to peek through the bushes. Just for a second, right? Couldn’t hurt anyone.

He pushes his face through the hedge, feeling the waxy leaves brush up against his fur as he does. Once he’s through, he sees a giant ocean of grass filled to the brim with mammals. He finds the band in the corner, playing softly but loud enough to be heard should you quiet down. He sees several gazeebos are sprinkled through the gigantic yard, veiled with lace, filled with mammals dancing.

“Alright,” he says quietly to himself. “So it’s some creepy rich party.”

The fox tries to pull himself out of the rectangular block of flora, but nothing budges. What was so easy to melt into a few seconds ago won’t let him go. The twigs and the leaves seem to grip around his torso, leaving him trapped.

“Great,” Nick sighs. He goes through about two possible solutions to the problem before listing off twenty sarcastic ones, one of which being to call to one of the rich mammals for help.

A second glance at the partygoers makes him reconsider. Something isn’t right. And it’s not _just_ that these upper crust animals aren’t drinking champagne and making passive aggressive conversation like they’re supposed to do. It’s that they all look the same, despite filling out the standard variation of sizes that you’d find in Zootopia.

They’re all wearing the same thing. Robes drape their bodies, crimson like blood. And their heads are shaped the same. Masks, Nick figures. Triangle ears, triangle snout, shaped kind of like a racecar or a weird spaceship you’d find in a sci-fi movie.

Fox masks, Nick realizes.

Paws — no, hooves, close in around his feet, still sticking out of the hedge. He’s yanked out and held up high enough so he can see above the hedge. All the partygoers seem to notice this, and turn towards him.

A horde is the best way to describe what’s dropped everything it’s doing to look at Nick. A horde of creepy mammals in robes, wearing fox masks and chanting, are the last thing that he sees before a cloth is pressed to his snout. His squirming body in the giraffe’s grip soon goes limp, and his last thought is something to the tune of:

“Goddamn it, Finnick.”

 

* * *

 

Nick wakes up, and he’s tied down. Wouldn’t be the first time, he jokes to himself in an attempt to make himself feel better.

It doesn’t.

He looks around, noticing the candles around him and the weird pentagram thing underneath his surprisingly comfy chair. This must be one of the gazeebos that he saw earlier. Music slithers through the veils and wraps around his ears. To his irritation, the song sounds even better from here. Almost makes him okay with being tied up and probably killed.

Suddenly, the candles blow themselves out. The darkness crowds around Nick. It watches him. Waiting to see what’ll happen like a crowd in a movie theatre.

Nick tests his bindings. Thick satin rope. Fancy and strong. Maybe if he moved around enough he could loosen the knot…

“Don’t bother,” a sweet, sexy voice tells him from the front of the tent. He looks up to see a tall mammal in the same robe and mask getup as he saw before he blacked out. She walks over to him, hips swaying hypnotically in the dark. Her strut is confident, but there’s a sense of insecurity there. Like she’s walking blind.

“You’re prey,” Nick notices. The girl pushes him against the chair gently and proceeds to straddle him. Her scent is heavy in the air. She isn’t wearing any panties.

“We’re all prey, sweetie,” she says. “I mean, you’re not, obviously. But that’s what we’re counting on.”

“Are you gonna kill me or something?”

“What? No! We’re gonna do something better,” her hooves grope at his crotch, stroking it sensually. “But with that big, strong nose I assume that you’ve already figured that out. You bad little pred, you.”

“Uh—“

The doe (he could recognize that scent now that it was practically fogging up the air) kisses him with soft lips and just a little bit of tongue. His first instinct is to squirm, but he follows his second, which is to let it happen. There could be worse ways for this whole mess to play out and this one is definitely a pleasant one, if unexpected.

They gently push up against each other, playing a sensual game of cat and mouse with their tongues. Nick closes his eyes, letting her do most of the work. She was the one kidnapping him, after all. It only makes sense that he does the minimal amount of effort to help this become an enjoyable experience.

He takes another moment to thank Finnick. If he never got so sloshed up in anticipation of tonight he’d probably be freaking out right now. She removes her lips from his and proceeds to lick up and down his neck, grooming him softly and making him giggle.

“So what,” he whispers. “You guys just really like preds?”

“No,” another voice booms. It’s deep. Male. Powerful. “Predators simply provide an ample source of energy.”

Nick’s eyes snap open to find about 15 more mammals in the room that there previously were. They’re all crowded around him and the doe, holding giant leather bound books and those stupid _creepy_ as hell fox masks.

“Oh,” he looks around. They’re all around the same size. Deer? No, the smells are too varied. All different kind of prey gathered around him. This is like a scene from a really weird porno and he’s about to start fucking. “Wait, what? You’re not gonna cut me or anything, right?”

The doe on top of him giggles. “Let me show you.”

Hooves grasp at the chair’s arms as she slides herself off of him, going slow so she can grind herself against the tent on his crotch before landing her knees on the ground. She rips his pawaiian shirt open, exposing his fluffy chest to the rest of the gazeebo. He hears the weird robed mammals flip the pages of their books.

Kisses trail down his chest, stopping when the doe decides to nuzzle at his belly. Soon, he feels something wet and floppy press against his belly. He tenses up and looks down. The doe has a paint brush, dipped in red paint — at least, he really hopes that that’s red paint because he can’t be involved in another murder investigation. She paints a pentagram similar to the one underneath their chair on his belly.

All from around him, the prey start chanting. He can’t understand their words. Whether that be because they’re too muffled or because they’re not speaking english is beyond him. He just knows that they sound like they’re summoning something and he’s not too sure about that.

His worries increase when hooves undo his belt and tug his pants off. Why is he still hard? This shouldn’t be arousing to him.

But he’s hard as a rock, and he only gets harder when the doe takes his underwear off and reveals his cock to their creepy audience. He feels…powerful. Placebo, surely. Something in his mind is sure that they’re doing something to him, but he thinks about how tonight was supposed to play out and he doesn’t care anymore. He woke up today thinking that he was gonna get laid, and that’s what he’s going to do.

A tongue starts working at him, licking the whole of his length diligently before lapping at the tip. Deer always give the best blowjobs. Something about their tongues and the shape of their snouts. Soon enough a mouth engulfs his cock, and he throws his head back to moan.

The chanting gets louder, but somehow Nick can still hear the music. Her maw is nice and warm, and he doesn’t feel any teeth at all. Her tongue licks at him like a delicious treat, and every time it swirls around his head he moans softly.

By the next minute he’s started thrusting. He doesn’t know when he started, but he can’t stop now. His heart’s beating hard in his chest and his head is flushed with pleasure and primal instinct. The chanting around him gets faster. The crowd are moving in, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about right now is not ever letting this end.

Wet slurps make their way to his ears. He can hardly talk, now. His mouth is open but he can’t speak. He thrusts harder and faster, moaning pathetically when she pulls away to take a quick breath of air.

Next when she takes him into her mouth she comes at him with an emboldened vigor. She wants to finish this. That’s fine. So does he.

She sucks harder, tongue working away at his cock as she pushes him into her throat. When Nick thrusts away she moans for more, following his hips back against the chair and gagging herself on him again and again. He groans, harsh and ragged as she deepthroats him for all that he’s worth. Tears fill her eyes, and she tries to take him out of her mouth, but another set of hooves keep her steady against him as she laps at him from inside her mouth.

Nick can’t take it anymore. He starts to cum, and his groans fill the pauses in the chanting perfectly. He loses track of how many strings of cum spurt out of his cock after the fifth, only focusing on the pleasure that lasts for much, much longer than the amount that he fires off.

The last thing he sees is the doe smiling at him, unmasked, cum leaking out of her mouth.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up by a curb, somewhere in Sahara Square.

“Move it, fox!” someone yells, and he rolls over before getting nudged harshly with an elephant’s foot. He gets up to glare at the giant asshole, but loses his energy when he feels a headache coming on.

Curious, he checks his belly, finding a smeared red circle painted against his fur.

“Get off the fucking street, dog!” someone else yells. He crawls to the sidewalk, feeling a car speed by and rip a few hairs off his tail.

Par for the course of this god-forsaken city. He gets up and walks down the street, wondering where the nearest ice cream joint is.


End file.
